


October Prompts

by Malus (Taselby)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taselby/pseuds/Malus
Summary: What is says on the label. Short character snippets in response to an October 2020 prompt list. Tags will be updated as I add bits. Er, this is going to be tag-a-palooza by the time I'm done.Thank you to my Usual Suspects for reading and pep-talking
Kudos: 6





	1. Voice (Anders)

Anders knows it’s a dream. He can feel her behind him - warm, soft, spooned up tight with a strong arm over his waist, pulling him close. Safe, loved, comforted. And for a bare moment he allows himself to believe, to sink into the sensation of his mother holding him. 

Like everything with the Fade, he knows he can’t trust it, not really. Beyond this moment the stone floor of the cell is digging into his hip, chill soaking into his bones. The air is thick with mildew and rot. He’s not as young as he used to be, when Irving would ruffle his hair and send him to his quarters instead of punishing him in earnest. Giving him to the templars. The small corner of his mind not entangled in this bittersweet embrace resents the dreadful bargain forced on mages, that even their dreams aren’t safe. Not even here with enchanted walls sealing him away from his magic. The fade won't answer a waking summons into his hands, but somehow still finds his sleeping mind.

It’s good he’s turned away, he thinks, that his eyes are closed. Time has blurred her face in his memory, but her voice — her voice still reaches straight down into the heart of him. 

The templars will come soon, he knows, to kick him awake and offer abuse. Or food. It can go either way, really. The arm tightens around his belly. “We could go home, if you like,” she whispers. “That calico barn cat just had a litter, and old man Simmons flooded his fields last week. The river is high.”

He can hear the templars in the hall, and opens his eyes to darkness. Really, might as well have kept them closed. “Anders, we could go _home_.”

“Begone,” he says sadly, the illusion broken. The fade falls away like mist as he sits up and scrubs at his face. It’s a victory, if he thinks about it properly. Even the demons don’t know his name.


	2. Dealbreaker (Isabela)

“If you’re looking for _companionship_ , you need to talk to Madam Lusine; if you’re looking for work, we’re not hiring.” The mousy little waitress, what’s her name? Viveka. She’s direct, at least, but the Rose is a place for candor. Sure, there’s plenty of artifice in a whorehouse, but when you scrape away the paint it really all comes back to the basics. What do you want? From whom? How much?

For Isabela, tonight those answers were _a drink_ , _from anyone who’s pouring_ , and _how much is peace worth, anyway_? 

Viveka props her tray against a hip, not even trying to conceal her boredom. Isabela puts on a smile like lipstick, and says “Just a drink tonight, sweet thing.”

“Whatever. The bar is over there.”

Isabela’s first impression is that there is a bear behind the bar. It’s been a while since she’s been here, but she’s pretty sure she would have remembered that. Maker, he’s big enough to make Hawke look delicate. She stares until he smiles, all white teeth in a face as dark as his beard. It's unnerving. “It’s okay, I get that a lot,” he says in a thick Nevarran accent. “I’m Leo. What can I get you?”

Three whiskeys later, business is picking up. The workers are plying their trade, flirting with coy looks and soft touches. They laugh too loudly, smile too broadly, laying it on thick and trusting Lusine to handle the crass negotiations of service for money. Gamlen has wandered in and installed himself at the other end of the bar. No eyes for the girls— or boys, Isabela notes, but keeps glancing toward the back room where the gaming tables are. 

They’re both out of place here, and pretend not to see each other.

Leo picks up a clean glass and pretends to polish it, eyes scanning the room. “No offense, but why are you here?”

“I’m drinking,” she says, tapping her cup on the bar for a refill. “You ever notice,” she continues after he pours a generous measure, “that people always say _no offense_ right before saying something offensive? Like it’s some kind of free pass to be rude.”

He picks up another clean glass and shakes his head. “I see you with that bossy Ferelden and his friends at the Hanged Man.”

“What does that have to do with— wait. You’ve been at the Hanged Man? No, I think I’d have noticed. You’re not exactly… average.”

“I like the stew.” He raises an eyebrow at her and keeps polishing. “Seems like if I had friends like that, I’d be there. And not here alone, drinking overpriced whiskey like it's Corff’s swill.”

She turns off the charm. Should have known better anyway. “Well it’s my coin, isn’t it.” Gamlen is gone from his seat, probably to the gaming tables to lose more of the money that Hawke gave him. And Hawke would just give him more. That man was too soft-hearted by far. “Anyway, Hawke’s not bossy. He’s just got this way of getting people to do what he wants. Hardly even has to ask, most of the time. It’s utterly appalling. If I could command _half_ that kind of loyalty… anyway.”

The whiskey is the exact color of Hawke’s eyes. “Yeah that group is all fun and games. Until someone starts talking about helping people, and doing the right thing, and being there for each other. And it’s all just like family isn’t it?” She drains off the last of her cup and pushes it away, laying a few extra coins on the bar for Leo. “I’ve seen how that story ends. And no thank you.”


	3. Lie (Sten)

Leliana picked her way along the grassy verge where the narrow path fell away into a canyon. It was pretty. A mix of evergreens and hardwoods, just starting to turn golden as summer cooled into autumn. Earlier there was the silver thread of a river curling along the canyon floor, but she couldn’t see it from here. Sten strode along beside her. Strode was perhaps too generous, she thought, since he shortened his step to keep pace with her as she kept to the back of the group. Quite considerate, really.

Alistair, Wynne and the others rounded a boulder, out of sight, yellow puffs of dust marking their passage. “Sten, may I ask you a question?” 

“That _is_ a question,” he said. “But very well.” His voice suited him. Large, but not generally frightening.

“You killed all those people. Back in Lothering.” A loose rock tumbled from the edge, clattering down the canyon wall. She saw Sten glance at her feet, but he offered no assistance.

He took a breath that could almost be a sigh in someone else. “Yes. You know this. Shall I number them for you?”

“No. What I don’t understand is, after you knew they didn’t have your sword, why you stayed. You don’t seem to think much of humans, and yet you let yourself be put into that cage. Why didn’t you just leave and look for your sword yourself?”

“I wasn’t in the cage for them.” He didn’t stop walking, but there was a slight hitch in his gait that made small clouds of dust kick up behind his heels. “I had done two unspeakable things. By losing my sword I shamed myself, the Beresaad, and the Tamassrans who set me on this path. As if that weren’t enough, I slaughtered the ones who had been kind enough to restore me to health. Do you humans have such a paltry understanding of honor that you believe I could wash away that shame as easily as their blood?”

The sun dipped below the mountains. It wasn’t dark yet, but they would be looking for a campsite soon. “No. I apologize,” she said. The path narrowed around the boulder, and he stepped back for her to go first. Ahead she could see the others, and Zevran scouting ahead for game, or a campsite. She hoped he remembered to clean the poison off his knives if he was hunting. What a waste of perfectly good rabbits.

“You are free now, though, are you not?”

“Is that what you see? Your Warden has only traded my death in a cage for death fighting darkspawn. In many ways I am become the sword I lost, a weapon fitted to his hand.”

A heaviness settled deep into her chest. “You mistake him, if you think that is all he sees you as. All any of us see.”

Sten stopped and looked down at her for a breath. Two. Then looked away down the path toward the others. “Parshaara. You have exhausted your questions. May we please get back to the business of stopping the Blight?”

“Of course,” she said, “but we should catch some dinner first.”


End file.
